“And stand up straight. Good God,” the baron said testily, “how many times have I told you that whistling is ill-bred?”

Gareth waited a second, then asked, “Am I meant to answer that, or was it a rhetorical question?”

His father’s skin reddened.

Gareth swallowed. He shouldn’t have said that. He’d known that his deliberately jocular tone would infuriate the baron, but sometimes it was so damned hard to keep his mouth shut. He’d spent years trying to win his father’s favor, and he’d finally given in and given up.

And if he took some satisfaction in making the old man as miserable as the old man made him, well, so be it. One had to take one’s pleasures where one could.

“I am surprised you’re here,” his father said.

Gareth blinked in confusion. “You asked me to come,” he said. And the miserable truth was—he’d never defied his father. Not really. He poked, he prodded, he added a touch of insolence to his every statement and action, but he had never behaved with out-and-out defiance.

Miserable coward that he was.

In his dreams, he fought back. In his dreams, he told his father exactly what he thought of him, but in reality, his defiance was limited to whistles and sullen looks.

“So I did,” his father said, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Nonetheless, I never issue an order with the expectation that you will follow it correctly. You so rarely do.”

Gareth said nothing.

His father stood and walked to a nearby table, where he kept a decanter of brandy. “I imagine you’re wondering what this is all about,” he said.

Gareth nodded, but his father didn’t bother to look at him, so he added, “Yes, sir.”

The baron took an appreciative sip of his brandy, leaving Gareth waiting while he visibly savored the amber liquid. Finally, he turned, and with a coolly assessing stare said, “I have finally discovered a way for you to be useful to the St. Clair family.”

Gareth’s head jerked in surprise. “You have? Sir?”

His father took another drink, then set his glass down. “Indeed.” He turned to his son and looked at him directly for the first time during the interview. “You will be getting married.”

“Sir?” Gareth said, nearly gagging on the word.

“This summer,” Lord St. Clair confirmed.

Gareth grabbed the back of a chair to keep from swerving. He was eighteen, for God’s sake. Far too young to marry. And what about Cambridge? Could he even attend as a married man? And where would he put his wife?

And, good God above, whom was he supposed to marry?

“It’s an excellent match,” the baron continued. “The dowry will restore our finances.”

“Our finances, sir?” Gareth whispered.

Lord St. Clair’s eyes clamped down on his son’s. “We’re mortgaged to the hilt,” he said sharply. “Another year, and we will lose everything that isn’t entailed.”

“But…how?”

“Eton doesn’t come cheap,” the baron snapped.

No, but surely it wasn’t enough to beggar the family, Gareth thought desperately. This couldn’t be all his fault.

“Disappointment you may be,” his father said, “but I have not shirked my responsibilities to you. You have been educated as a gentleman. You have been given a horse, clothing, and a roof over your head. Now it is time you behaved like a man.”

“Who?” Gareth whispered.

“Eh?”

“Who,” he said a little louder. Whom was he meant to marry?

“Mary Winthrop,” his father said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Gareth felt the blood leave his body. “Mary…”

“Wrotham’s daughter,” his father added.

As if Gareth didn’t know that. “But Mary…”

“Will be an excellent wife,” the baron continued. “Biddable, and you can dump her in the country should you wish to gad about town with your foolish friends.”

“But Father, Mary—”

“I accepted on your behalf,” his father stated. “It’s done. The agreements have been signed.”

Gareth fought for air. This couldn’t be happening. Surely a man could not be forced into marriage. Not in this day and age.

“Wrotham would like to see it done in July,” his father added. “I told him we have no objections.”

“But…Mary…” Gareth gasped. “I can’t marry Mary!”

One of his father’s bushy brows inched toward his hair-line. “You can, and you will.”

“But Father, she’s…she’s…”

“Simple?” the baron finished for him. He chuckled. “Won’t make a difference when she’s under you in bed. And you don’t have to have anything to do with her otherwise.” He walked toward his son until they were uncomfortably close. “All you need to do is show up at the church. Do you understand?”

Gareth said nothing. He didn’t do much of anything, either. It was all he could manage just to breathe.

He’d known Mary Winthrop his entire life. She was a year his elder, and their families’ estates had bordered on one another’s for over a century. They’d been playmates as young children, but it soon became apparent that Mary wasn’t quite right in the head. Gareth had remained her champion whenever he was in the district; he’d bloodied more than one bully who had thought to call her names or take advantage of her sweet and unassuming nature.